Ironically, Love
by First Aid Spray
Summary: Love Wilcox is hellbent on assassinating the Handsome Men and avenging Trevor Pearlharbor. The story of the Handsome Mens' deaths and the secret to Trevor Pearlharbor's abilities.
1. Chapter 1

Ironically, Love

Love's Story

_Prologue / Justified_

For once in what seemed to be an eternity, Broadway was silent. The intersection, where the great standoff was taken place, was only occupied with two individuals—each with their own significance and goal. This meeting was no ordinary coincidence, however. For it was the doing of fate that stirred the tides of destiny, bringing them one step closer to the ultimate justice they sought.

Love Wilcox was her name. She stood on the western side of the intersection, gazing forward at the tall assassin, Garcian Smith. The fighting was over and business was to be considered. No longer was Love considered Handsome Pink--whose attire was ridiculous with a skimpy skirt and tights. No more games.

The soft breeze that assumed peace between them had caressed Love's face gently, cooling her flushed face that noted unsteadiness. So much was on her mind and yet, she had little time.

Love lifted her head, ridding the shadows that hid her features. Her gleaming blue eyes aligned with Garcian's. She could already read his mind just by studying his face; the man had no intention of fighting her.

"Nice to meet you, Mister Killer Garcian." She spoke with ease. "My name is Love."

The silence was finally broken. A swift breeze shot past between them and made realization to them that time was ticking.

Garcian, in response, arched an eyebrow curiously. "How do you know my name?"

She closed her eyes for a moment then opened them with a determined look upon her cherubic face.

"Because I write the story, mister."

He kept his glance fixed on Love. This girl was interesting, he thought to himself. Indeed she was an avid gamer and it _was_ true that her world of games and reality exist as one. _Interesting_.

"I don't follow." Garcian simply replied.

Love gave a smile in equal return. "Here's the thing. I work for Electro-Inline Inc." She raised a hand, gesturing a shrug. "You see?"

Garcian raised an eyebrow again with interest. He had noted that Love was a deceiving figure as he began to compute Love's meaning.

"You're saying… that they're all Electro-Inline Inc.'s advertisements."

The blonde nodded and began to walk forward. Her white heels were clicking against the asphalt, making the only sound heard amongst the silence. Love closed her eyes, imaging her goals being fulfilled and acquiescing to what reality may do in return.

"That's why I'm gonna bring 'em down. I'll make 'em pay for Trevor's death." Her voice was strong and frosted with irony as she remembered Trevor Pearlharbor, the egotistical—and currently deceased--comic book artist.

Garcian smirked. "Can you really do it?"

It was indefinite. She asked herself the same question: Could she really "avenge" the man's death? Her mind was hell bent on committing herself to this mission—there was no way she would turn heel now. The answer turned out to be just as gratifying.

"I'll make sure justice is done." Love replied. "But in _my_ book though. You be sure to check it out in next week's issue."

Another breeze came past as Love stopped before Garcian and extended her hand. Garcian glanced down and saw the few beaded and silver bracelets on her wrist along with three dots. It, if Garcian remembered correctly, symbolized power and fire.

His eyes met Love's again. They were gleaming with youth and determination. Surely this is the girl that can do the job.

"I'm really glad we met, Mister Killer Garcian." She added with a small smile.

Garcian was obliged to shake her hand. He took the fair, bracelet clad hand and held it firmly with a returning grin.

"The pleasure's all mine. Love, your passion is inspiring to us all."

Gently, Love pulled her hand away and held both behind her. Her smile remained on her pink glossed lips, proving that Love was all the more pleased with Garcian. It was a smile he'd never forget.

"Thank you." Love nodded and took a clicking step back with one heel. "I'll be watching you, mister."

With yet another breeze and soft flash before Garcian's eyes, Love Wilcox had disappeared without a trace. Leaving nothing behind for him to assure that she was real. Their meeting was surely _sur_real and one that Garcian's mind couldn't let go.

Garcian glanced up at the sky. It was a cloudy day which hadn't rained. He began to turn the other direction, taking his case in hand. It was best to leave before it started to storm.

"_I'll make sure justice is done…  
_

"…_Mister Killer Garcian."_


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note_ – I understand that it's been three years since I've had at this fanfiction, but I've decided to take it up again with renewed determination. Critiques, comments and/or ideas are greatly appreciated! In addition, I'd like to thank those who encouraged me to continue writing this.

_Chapter Two / Target_

Love Wilcox is her name. Blonde, petite and intelligent, Trevor Pearlharbor had thought her to be perfect for the role of Handsome Pink, member of the elite Handsome Men, Punishing Rangers. She was the voice of reason, the epitome of cute and the one that every nerd dreamt about—so long as perversion wasn't in play and wasn't Handsome Light Brown's breasts that they desired.

Sure, Jimmy Dix's middle name was Danger… But Love Wilcox's middle name was Deceiving.

She was sitting on her couch now with her arm draped over the frame, watching a recording of the news broadcast that was shown only months ago.

"…Reporting to you live now… the reports are just coming in. Steve Sunderson of the Democratic Party has just been assassinated during today's..."

The sound of the reporter's voice was drowned out by Love's commotion on the couch as she sat up and pulled a .45 ACP from her side.

As if he was reacting to her, the reporter said with frustration, "Oh jeez."

One, two, three thunderous blasts slammed against the television screen, pelting the glass and shutting the reporter up, making the image disappear. Love barred her teeth as the television sat ajar on the stand, then collapsed with a loud crash. TV shrapnel flew up into the air.

Love inhaled deeply, and then exhaled, freeing her jaw from pressure. Her teeth pulsated momentarily. She rose from the leather couch and walked over to her front door with her .45 still in hand, slapping against her hips. When she bent down to slip on her purple strap-on heels, Love could feel a stinging sensation to the left of her lips. Her pink tongue peeked out from between her lips and caressed the small nick. She tasted blood. As her tongue slithered back between her lips, she tasted menthe.

When she had put her heels on, Love reached into her shirt when her free hand and produced Polaroid photographs that were tucked into her bra. Each one had a picture of the Handsome Men… their true identities—her primary targets. Love proceeded to fan out the photographs. The first to the far left would be her first prey—first come, first serve was the policy of this game.

Love grinned.

She would be paying a visit to Brayden Finch, otherwise known as Handsome Dead.

A .45 ACP wasn't suitable for Brayden, but Love decided to bring it along anyway. She tucked the firearm into a holster on her thigh, hidden away by her pink dress, and then ventured into her kitchen. Her fair hand grasped a drawer and pulled gently, unveiling am organized collection of kitchen knives. It hadn't taken her long to decide what to bring. Love lifted it out of its nook in the drawer and raised it up to the ceiling light above.

"Shun boning knife, distinguishable by its arcing blade like a samurai sword, designed for food preparation in removing bones from poultry, meat and fish. Perfect."

The knife had fit perfectly into the extra slip her thigh holster had, suiting her needs. When she had decided it was time, Love made sure to shut off all of the lights in her apartment and preceded out her door after locking it. She slipped on her pink sunglasses that hung from the neckline of her dress and walked down the stairs, whistling "Greensleeves" as she pictured Handsome Dead carved like a pork roast.


End file.
